


Laying The Children Out For A Massacre

by define_serenity



Category: Immortals (2011)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:36:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/define_serenity/pseuds/define_serenity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After killing his son Ares for his disobedience, his queen, Hera, confronts him with his actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laying The Children Out For A Massacre

**Author's Note:**

> **Missing scene**. Written because I was blown away (yet again) by Tarsem's creative talent, and I think Zeus was an incredibly interesting character that the movie sadly couldn't explore. Dedicated to **slowdead** (lj) and **grapesofwraith**.

Athena has all but spoken the words – “Are we at war, father?” – or the sky screams with her cries.

Thunder rolls.

He looks up at his daughter. Yes, he thinks, they are at war. He went to war with himself the moment his son and daughter disobeyed, when they intervened in a world they could never belong to because of what they are.

He started a far more perilous war the moment Ares’ heart stopped beating. The absence of his son became a void within him, something missing where a son’s loyalty was before. And if he felt it, she feels it two-fold.

The air shrieks, a lament for the dead, her wails settle in his chest, nestle somewhere alongside his heart. But it doesn’t break. It never breaks.

She comes to him shrouded in mourning.

The nails on both her hands and feet are black, her eyes accented by a dark dye he hasn’t seen her wear since they first met the Titans in battle. Right now he guesses it’s there to hide her tears, underscore her rage. She doesn’t show it—one of her many graces is that she allows her anger to rampage within her like a storm, only calming when she’s spoken her piece. He’s much the same in that respect.

That’s why he doesn’t see it coming.

He stands up to meet her eye. They are equals in this arena of gods and no matter his pride, she is his queen; he will treat her as such.

“Hera,” he says.

Her hand lands on his face hard; he staggers a step back from the sheer force of it, lightning inching across his cheek. But it doesn’t leave a mark.

She grits her teeth together. “What have you done?”

Athena backs away from them, head down.

He looks back at her, breathes evenly, tempering his own storm. “He didn’t abide by the law.”

Her eyes narrow. “ _Your_ law.”

“Yes,” he says, nods, takes a defiant step closer to her. “My law.”

He knows what’s to come, what accusations will rain down from her lips.

“And what do you do every time you lie with one of _them_?” Hera says, as expected, eyes burning like a firestorm. “When you shame your family. When you shame _me_.”

When he shames himself.

He has sinned, time and time again, he has allowed himself to walk the lower levels of this Earth and found temptation no god could resist. She has never forgiven him his previous trespasses, how can she forgive him this?

“He was your son,” Hera adds, does not release his eyes, not once, allows him no moment of respite. She has this way with him, a way of pinning him down somewhere at his core. It’s what made her his consort long ago, not just her beauty and tenacity, but her defiance.

Yet her inability to see past his imperfections has left her susceptible to jealousy and vengeance. And none serves as better example of those human passions than Hephaestus, the youngling she so brutally cast out.

“As Hephaestus was yours.”

“Do not speak of him!” she spits. “He was an _abomination_. As is this girl you favour above all your other children.”

She points at Athena, his perfect daughter. She resents him for it—that he was able to create a daughter so complete and beautiful, a true goddess, and all her own body managed to produce was a misfortunate and disfigured boy.

“Ares was our son,” Hera says, her words more painful than her blows. He doesn’t need to be reminded. She turns from him, places a distance between them, a chasm growing every day. “Our first-born.”

Maybe that’s what she truly hates him for—Ares came from both of them, he was the union of both their bodies, now one less tie holding them together.

“And you killed him after he protected one of your humans.” Her hands have formed into fists on the white marble. “One of your _precious_ favourites.”

He wears black to mourn his son; her toga is the deep-red unyielding colour of war, no golden flecks to represent Ares’ descent into Hades, no crown to mark her divinity. His own crown lays cast aside in some desolate room too.

“Tell me, husband,” Hera says, and turns to face him again, the overabundance of her robes forming tidal waves on the floor. “Does this human man measure up to the God of War?”

She wears the colours of Ares, _for_ Ares, their son of war, born after their last great battle, a product of their first time of peace. Born from their love. But war will return to the heavens as well if this _human_ man – as she so delicately puts it – fails in his mission.

Fire starts in him. “Have you looked down upon the world of man as of late, _wife_?” he asks. Has she seen what her son saw? Has she seen the devastation Ares tried to stop? Has she ever laid eyes on Theseus?

“Why would I?” Hera asks. “They are not my children.”

No, one of her children, one of _their_ children, lies encased in marble at the very edge of Mount Olympus, soon to join the pantheon of immortals that went before him.

“Hyperion marches on Tartarus with the Epirus Bow,” he says, painfully reminded that it was their son who had forged the bow in the first place. Ares could not bear to see it fall into the hands of a man like Hyperion. “Theseus alone can stop him.”

“And you could stop him with a single lightning strike!” Her words cut sharp, laced with a deep sorrow he has not heard before, except maybe in his own voice. “You could lay waste to his army with a single thought.” So could she, he thinks, but she would never break his laws. She has no care for the world of mortals. “And yet you won’t. You will do nothing to protect them. Your own children.”

“Every child outgrows the guidance of its parents,” he answers.

Her ability to see only good in her own children has left her blind to history. Children or not, they will stray from the path laid out by their parents, because a youngling’s mind is a rebellious one.

“As we did.”

Hera casts down her eyes, takes a step away from him, but remains silent.

“Have you forgotten, sister?” He moves one step closer, careful this time. “How I had to slay our father so that our brothers and sisters could live? So that _you_ could live?”

When her eyes find his again the tempest has calmed.

“Without these rules there would be only chaos,” he says. “We’d rule the world of man, and they would worship us.”

They’d witness their power, and tremble beneath them.

She takes in a deep breath. “But we would rule through fear,” she says.

His hands come to rest on her shoulders. “Yes, my love,” he says.

She does not look at him again, but accepts the warmth of his embrace. This should be enough, he thinks, the love of the one who has given him so many. Her fingers dig into his back. She cries silently now.

She will not forgive him.

He will not forgive himself.

The wind howls.

Trees sway.

Leaves rustle.

This is the calm before the storm.

It’s Athena who speaks again. “Hyperion has reached the citadel.”

He looks at his daughter. Yes, he thinks, it’s time for war.

“Then it is time we do our part.”

He knows his queen will not stop him; the Titans are their common enemy. She will not join him, he knows this too. She’s never been one for warmongering.

When he looks at her again she’s the girl he freed from his father’s gut so long ago, kicking crying screaming, skin covered in a more visceral red, eyes burning in the sunlight. That girl, his sister, his _blood_. The only one who could ever truly defy him.

“Walk with me,” Hera says.

Athena motions to speak, but he hushes her with a single glance. She is still his daughter. She must still obey. “Gather the others,” he commands, then takes his bride by the hand. He follows her down to the agora, where their son rests in his tomb.

“Take this,” she says, lifts Ares’ hammer effortlessly from its resting place. “He would have wanted you to wield it.”

He looks at his goddess, uncrowned, defiant, mighty. He brushes her hair back, presses his lips to hers; she takes his greedily, marks him, yet already owns him.

He whispers, forehead resting against hers, “I will return.”

Next time they meet, they will bury more children. She will help him bury Athena.

She wears the red colour of war, for Ares, for him. For all her children that head to battle. 

 

 

**\- fin -**

 


End file.
